Collateral Damage
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: When Sherlock vanishes one day without notice, John knows instinctively that something is wrong. Bad feelings, however, can't help to find your missing best friend. Dark!fic. Rated M for a reason. All warnings inside for those who wish to know before reading.
1. Missing & Torture

**Collateral Damage**

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**Warnings: Rated M for future chapters, containing:**

**Descriptions of wounds, vague descriptions of medical conditions, mentions of possible rape but _no_ actual instances, mentions of drug abuse, traumatic experiences, slightly-graphic torture, (possibly squicky)** **psychological reactions, sexual innuendo, emotional breakdowns, mentions of alcohol, descriptions of war scenarios, no real Johnlock but lots of caring!John, so take that as you will, etc...**

**Physical abuse including: electrocution, riding crops, knives, suffocation, being tied up, being drugged, etc...**

**Psychological abuse including: sensory deprivation, talking about hurting others, etc...**

**ANGST.**

**In other words, this is dark. It isn't _extremely_ graphic- not to the point of being MA, seeing as how MA isn't allowed- but everything mentioned is in this story in some instance or another. Lots of angst.**

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Sherlock had been missing for three days.

Maybe 'missing' wasn't the right word. Lestrade said he had people looking, Mycroft said that, too, but the latter seemed less concerned than Lestrade had. They both said that this had happened before, that Sherlock would wander off for days on end, never making contact, until, one night, he would be back in his flat suddenly and passed out on the sofa.

With Lestrade- and Mycroft, too- John could understand their way of thinking. From what he had come to understand, Sherlock had a bit of a drug addict's past about him. He didn't know for sure, but given the drugs bust awhile ago... Well, Lestrade knew something that John didn't and John didn't ever ask. That was a personal question for someone like Sherlock, who didn't even tell John when he was going out to Barts for the lab. And, anyway, that was the past.

Which was why John had been so unwilling to accept Lestrade and Mycroft's half-hearted attempts to find the detective.

Of course, that had only been twenty-four hours missing.

Twenty-four stretched into forty-eight, by which John had started to panic. He had called Lestrade _and_ Mycroft back, reinforcing the fact that he thought something was wrong. Mycroft didn't seem too concerned, but Greg was easier to sway.

They spent the better part of seven hours traipsing through a soggy London looking for a sign of the consulting detective, but when the midnight bells chimed, Lestrade said that they'd continue their search tomorrow.

They did.

But Sherlock never turned up, John couldn't squelch the flower of panic that had blossomed in his chest, and forty-eight hours stretched into seventy-two and when John stumbled into the flat after three in the morning, drenched from head to toe, Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, he didn't know if he thought he was going to pass out or vomit.

"We'll find him, John," Lestrade said, accompanying John upstairs. Mycroft was traipsing behind them, his umbrella left in the hallway. "He's a capable adult. I'm sure he's fine."

John just sank onto the sofa and placed his head in his hands. He didn't respond to Lestrade's comment because he had this _terrible_ feeling, and he knew that they didn't.

John had heard of these things. Having an intimate bond with someone, being so close to them that, illogically, you could tell when your other half was happy or sad, hurting or in trouble. John had never believed in such things, not until he met Sherlock. All of John's mind was screaming to him that Sherlock was in trouble and he couldn't do a thing about it.

He noted that his hand was starting to shake and he clenched his hands into fists, rubbing his forehead.

"My brother is unpredictable, John."

John raised his head. "Something's wrong, Mycroft. I know you both say that he's run off like this before, but this is different. He has _me_ now. He wouldn't just run off."

He knew that their unspoken response would be _wouldn't he?_.

"Everything's going to be fine. Get some sleep, John, and we'll keep looking in the morning. We're going to find him," Lestrade stressed. "Change out of your clothes, have a cuppa, and go to bed. I'll call you if I hear anything."

It didn't help, but John nodded and stood and strode purposefully for the stairs. Only after he was tucked away in his bedroom and he heard Lestrade and Mycroft descend the stairs did he move. He picked up his mobile- he would change in a moment- and texted Sherlock.

_I'm worried. Please come back. Baker Street is lonely and I can't sleep not knowing if you're out there hurting._

He didn't expect a response and he didn't get one. So, he just found some clothes and went downstairs and had a shower. It didn't help, either. He poured himself a cup of tea and trailed back to Sherlock's room, feeling sick. Where was Sherlock now? And what was happening to him?

"Come on, Sherlock... Just a text. Just prove that you're alright..." John mumbled, looking at the detective's un-slept in bed. "Wherever you are..."

* * *

Sherlock fell into a cab, gasping out "221 Baker Street". He closed his eyes tightly, trying to control his breathing.

"Y'okay, mate?" the cabbie asked.

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and flexed his toes, wincing after he remembered, vaguely, that moving his leg was a bit not good. Broken, he thought, but he didn't remember how. He kept forgetting that it was broken, anyway, until he felt the pain.

His heart was pounding wildly and it felt like he couldn't draw a deep breath. The world was spinning. He just wanted to go _home_.

"You sure you don't need a hospital?"

Sherlock wanted to groan, but just whispered "Baker Street" again. He leaned forward slightly, resting his head back against the seat. He almost winced as something warm oozed down the back of his neck but, while a little voice in the back of his head whispered _blood_, he didn't move.

The cab turned a corner and the movement made Sherlock's stomach lurch. He pressed the back of his hand, crusted with blood, against his mouth and swallowed back vomit. It left his mouth tasting worse, worse than the metallic taste of blood that he'd been stomaching for almost three days.

His head was spinning, his vision dimming. He had to stay awake. He was almost back home; he could not fall asleep now.

_Just a few more moments, Holmes..._

That's what he had been telling himself for the past three days.

* * *

**Obviously, all the warnings in the beginning of this chapter occur not in this chapter, but throughout the story. I will be pointing out which things happen in which chapters for further warning.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you.**


	2. Painful Reunion

**Warnings: Depictions of injuries, allusions to possible sexual abuse (NO instances. Just a mention of a possibility and nothing else).**

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John jolted awake as a door creaked. He sat up- he'd fallen asleep on Sherlock's bed- and immediately looked towards the kitchen.

"Sherlock?"

He knew he was probably hearing things, but then... a thump. John all but ran downstairs, his bare feet loud on the creaking steps.

"Sherlock! Where the _hell_... shit."

It took John all of five seconds to realize that something was wrong, something was really, really wrong. Sherlock's shoulders were slumped, he was deathly pale... and that wasn't even the worst.

The consulting detective had a spectacular black eye, there was blood smeared all over his face, and his eyes were... dull. They were sunken in, but they were... glazed over, no sense of purpose or intelligence. They were vacant, free of everything that made Sherlock Sherlock. John only noticed when those eyes rolled back because he was staring at them in horror.

He lunged forward and threw his arms around Sherlock, stumbling with the dead weight and crashing to the ground.

"Sherlock! Sherlock?"

John's fingers deftly looped around Sherlock's wrist. Pulse, out of control. He leaned close, feeling the reassuring brush of Sherlock's breath against his cheek. He couldn't smell alcohol, not that he had expected to. Something bad had happened, not Sherlock getting drunk and getting into a fist fight. Besides, Sherlock rarely drank _anything_, let alone alcohol.

"John, is that you?" Mrs. Hudson's voice floated down the hallway as the click of another door opening echoed.

"Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance," John ordered, his voice steady. "Now."

She peered around the corner, visibly paled, but nodded determinedly and vanished back into her flat.

John peeled Sherlock's eyes open, noting that the detective's pupils were dilated. He placed his hand on his forehead, adding to himself that his patient had a fever.

He was just about to lower Sherlock onto the floor from his lap when the consulting detective tensed before throwing up. John didn't flinch, just focussed on making sure Sherlock didn't choke on his own vomit, scraping his hair out of his face and holding his head up.

That was when he noticed the blood. His fingers felt warm and wet and, when he removed them from Sherlock's scalp, found them covered in crimson. His fingers immediately went back to Sherlock's scalp to assess the damage. It wasn't a terrible gash, if John was correct, but like any head wound, it was bleeding a lot and he thought that it might require stitches.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock's eyes were open, but still as vacant as before. "Sherlock, I need you to tell me what happened."

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, but he did throw up again.

John helped Sherlock into a sitting position. He was essentially sitting on his lap at this point and John became strikingly aware that he could feel Sherlock's ribs. He pushed Sherlock's coat out of the way, his mind blanching when he found Sherlock's clothes tattered and torn. There were several places where the trousers and jacket/shirt seemed to have been slashed at; there was dried blood. His shirt was missing half the buttons and his jacket wasn't buttoned, nor was the button on his trousers.

John swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, collecting himself.

He did not _need_ to think about what could have happened to Sherlock right now. He _needed_ to treat Sherlock's wounds, as a patient, and worry about anything else after John was sure that he _wasn't_ going to die.

Sherlock threw up a third time before slumping forward. John caught him and gently leaned him back against his chest, ignoring the twinge of panic when he found that there was blood in Sherlock's vomit.

The sirens were loud now and John struggled to his feet, not sparing a second glance at Mrs. Hudson as she held the door open.

The ambulance ride was painful, to say the least. John was used to being part of the action in taking care of someone, not sitting to the side and being forced to watch. Not when it was his best friend strapped onto the stretcher.

He just focussed on Sherlock's symptoms.

There had been a fight, some sort of abuse, obviously. The black eye and all the blood was the indication of that. John knew that Sherlock was _great_ with fighting. Hell, he had the art of jujitsu or whatever the hell it was on a poster above his bed! Sneaking up on him was nearly impossible.

The pupils could be a sign of a drug's influence, but given the head wound and the vacant stare, John thought that Sherlock had a concussion.

His ribs were prominent; on any given day, Sherlock didn't eat and that was alright, in a pinch, but he was clearly malnourished now, not to mention dehydrated.

His clothes looked like they had been cut at, torn... With a pocketknife? John couldn't tell. And he also didn't want to think about it right now. The hospital would be able to confirm or deny if any sexual activity had occurred, but John couldn't stand to think that his best friend had lost his virginity in... that way. It made him want to vomit.

And, on a less painful topic, Sherlock's vomit. The blood could mean something as simple as a Mallory-Weiss tear in the esophagus or something as volatile as internal hemorrhaging. Whatever the problem was, it needed to be aided.

As John thought all of this, he was telling the paramedics _everything_. How Sherlock had been missing for three days, how John had thought that something was wrong, how they had searched for him. How Sherlock had stumbled into the flat, collapsed, vomited, and the _look_ in his eyes...

They got separated once they got to the hospital. John wanted to run after them, to demand what was happening and how he could help, but, no. This was not Afghanistan, even if that _was_ his best friend lying on the gurney.

That being said. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**So, Sherlock's back. Now, as for what exactly happened and what exactly is wrong with our beloved detective, that's still a mystery. I understand it's a bit boring right now, but I must get through the medical standpoint before I start the psychological standpoint.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you.**


	3. Inner Turmoil

**Warnings: Sherlock's medical diagnosis- nothing graphic.**

* * *

"You're the family of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, although Greg, sitting next to him, didn't say a word.

John didn't care. "Yes," he said, standing up. "How is he? Do you know what happened?"

The doctor sighed. "Mr. Holmes is in surgery."

John's stomach dropped, but he swallowed and nodded. "Internal haemorrhaging?"

The doctor looked surprised. "Yes."

"I'm a doctor," John added.

"Oh. Doctor... Watson, was it? Your name was on his file..." the doctor trailed off before continuing again. "He clearly took quite a beating. He has a concussion, several broken ribs, and a punctured lung. His left leg's broken in three places and he's got several gashes that require stitches. He's in shock, has a urinary tract infection, and is malnourished and dehydrated. You said he was missing for three days?"

John was trying to remain calm. It was just a patient. Patient A, Room Seven. Nameless. John Doe.

Except Sherlock _wasn't_ just a patient. This was his best friend. John had a personal attachment to Sherlock and hearing all of these injuries piling up made him feel sick, again. And angry. Really quite angry, frankly.

"Yes," Mycroft supplied in the moment that John took to collect himself again.

"His malnourishment and dehydration are very severe, given the circumstances..." the doctor trailed off again.

"He wasn't eating before he vanished," John said. "He-" he cleared his throat- "he's been really busy. He works with the police."

"Yes, we know of Sherlock Holmes," the doctor said. "Although, the more I hear about him, I have to wonder about his idiosyncrasies..."

John shook his head, not wanting to hear the doctor's opinion on Sherlock's well-being. "Was there any sign of sexual intercourse?" he asked emotionlessly.

"No."

John sighed heavily, letting his shoulders slump. At least some small miracle had been with his best friend.

He realized that it was a terrible day, when he had to think that it was brilliant that Sherlock had only been beaten half to death and not raped.

"Thank goodness..." he murmured, feeling suddenly tired. He fell back into the chair, rubbing his eyes. He looked up again after a moment. "And he'll be okay?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable with the question. "Given Mr. Holmes's extensive injuries, it is hard to tell whether or not there will be lasting trauma... Physical or emotional."

John nodded. He knew that. He was worried more about the emotional, to be honest, as long as he knew the physical would be alright. Which he didn't know yet. Not until after surgery, not until after they stopped the bleeding.

The concussion, the shock, the malnutrition and dehydration, and the UTI were all manageable. The broken ribs and the broken leg were troublesome, but repairable. The punctured lung even had an easy fix, albeit painful. The internal bleeding was the worst, hence the surgery.

The emotional, however... They didn't even know what had _happened_ to Sherlock yet. Asides from being beaten, they didn't know what had occurred during the period of the past three days.

"We'll let you know more as soon as Mr. Holmes is out of surgery."

John nodded, feeling unable to speak. He didn't know if he was just tired from all the sleepless nights or if he was so relieved that he felt faint, but he decided that a trip to the toilet and then the cafeteria wouldn't be bad.

So, after the doctor had left them, John stood without a word and strode for the bathroom. It wasn't until he was standing in front of the mirror that he noticed that he had Sherlock's blood and vomit on his pyjamas. (He had left the flat in his pyjamas? When had he even found his shoes?) He took up a few paper towels and set to scrubbing away the mess as much as he could, splashing cold water onto his face afterwards. It woke him up slightly, but didn't make him feel much better.

Sighing shakily, John left the bathroom and shuffled to the cafeteria. He pushed the door open and immediately made for the vending machine, depositing enough money to get himself a bottle of Mountain Dew and a Babe Ruth. It was the worst breakfast that John thought that he had ever had, army food included, but it was sugar and caffeine, both of which would hopefully help his light-headedness and feeling like he was about to faint.

He sat down at one of the tables, noting dully that the rest of the rest of the cafeteria was closed and there was no one there with him. It felt lonely... more lonely than it did if John was just stepping away from the lab, away from Sherlock's experimenting at St. Barts to buy a sandwich.

John rubbed his eyes again, scrubbing his hands across his face.

He had known, from the first day that he had met Sherlock, that the man was different, but... who knew that John would end up in hospital at four-thirty in the morning, waiting to hear if his only best friend was going to be alright.

It was terrifying, and not in the good way. Not in the adrenalin-pumping, cab-chasing, criminal-fighting terrifying sort of good way. It was just horrible.

He finished his candy bar and stood, throwing the paper into the bin. He took another sip of his soda before stepping out of the cafeteria and trudging tiredly back towards the waiting room.

* * *

**Again, boring chapter. For those who say last chapter wasn't boring, thank you, but I still think it's boring when it's all description and not much talk. Sherlock wakes up next chapter! Progress, progress, progress!**

**I do not own ****_Sherlock_****. Thank you!**


	4. Irreparable?

**Warnings: Psychological effects. Not much of importance to note, warning-wise.**

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John watched the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as the detective slept. There was an oxygen mask fitted over Sherlock's mouth and nose and Sherlock was pale underneath it. The black eye was terrible looking and it made Sherlock look more pale than John thought he was.

John picked up the Ziploc bag full of ice, wrapping it in a cloth before gently placing it against Sherlock's eye. In this way, he had managed to get a lot of the swelling down, although the bruise would only go away with time. With any luck, though, Sherlock would be able to open his eyes with minimal pain. John wasn't entirely hopeful.

He had been sitting like this for awhile now. Once he had been allowed to see Sherlock, he hadn't left, except once to go to the toilet. Otherwise, he was seated in the chair next to the bed, watching him sadly.

John had always lived by the idea that _hate_ was a strong word, but he hated the person or people that had done this to Sherlock. _Hated_ them.

As John was sitting thinking this, Sherlock's eyes fluttered.

John sat up quickly. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock seemed to struggle with the idea of consciousness for a moment before those brilliant blue eyes finally met John's. John tried not to make it known that his stomach dropped at the haunted look residing within those beautiful, usually keen orbs.

"Sherlock? You're in hospital. Do you remember what happened?" John asked softly, raising his voice only enough so Sherlock could hear him.

Sherlock didn't respond, although his eyes did slowly move around the hospital room. He was clearly taking in his surroundings, although nothing seemed to really be interesting to the hurting detective.

"Sherlock?" John repeated, again.

Sherlock didn't even appear to hear John.

He was starting to panic. Standing, he pressed his knuckles against Sherlock's forehead again. He was warm, but it was probably from an infection. Sherlock didn't react. He just stared unblinkingly towards the ceiling, his eyes never once actually catching John's worried gaze.

"Sherlock, I'm going to talk to your doctor. Alright? Sherlock?" He picked up the remote control for the hospital bed, pressing it into Sherlock's limp hand. "If you need anything, _anything_, press the Call Nurse button. This one here," he said, tapping the button lightly. "If you need anything."

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, as before, and John cast a worried glance at him before hurrying out of the room.

He stood aside as the nurses performed a check-up on Sherlock, who never once flinched or complained. John stood, twisting his hands and with his stomach churning uncomfortably. Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong.

After the doctor had stepped in, ran through his clipboard and tried to get a response from Sherlock to no avail, John had resorted to leaning against the wall for support. His legs felt suddenly weak.

This could not be happening.

"What's wrong with him?" John demanded, trotting out into the hallway after the doctor. "He can be an antisocial prat, but it's like he's just staring straight _through_ me. He never does that, never. He always has purpose and now he's like a shell."

"Doctor Watson-"

"Just tell me the truth."

"Given his traumatic experiences, it's hard to tell what emotional damage Mr Holmes has sustained. We're going to get a counsellor to visit with him as soon as possible."

John opened his mouth to say that if Sherlock wouldn't talk to him, Sherlock wouldn't talk to anyone, but anything that could help...

"There's a chance that he may never remember what happened, isn't there?" he said instead. "That he could have amnesia or his mind blocks out the traumatic experience?"

The doctor nodded. "Given his concussion, anything is possible. We still have several more tests to run. For now, let his mind try to process what's happening. Sit with him. Let him know he has people here for him."

Resisting the urge to groan as the doctor walked away- he had told him nothing!- John walked back into Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you- okay, you really need to pay attention to me," he murmured, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock didn't look at him. "I know you were probably tuning out the doctors, so I'm going to tell you what's all wrong with you. It's an extensive list... but you always want the cold, hard facts, right?"

John went through the list of what injuries Sherlock had, what had been done in treating them, and what still needed to happen.

"The punctured lung's been treated and your leg has been set. Someone will be by shortly to cast it... You've had a few stitches... well, okay, a lot of stitches if I looked at the file correctly," John murmured, "but you..." he trailed off, before taking a deep breath. "You're going to have to talk to a therapist, Sherlock. Because you won't tell me what's happened..."

_Don't make him feel bad, John. Sherlock isn't responding, but he most likely_ is _listening. Don't make him feel worse about this. This is _not _his fault_.

"But it'll help," John added, gnawing his lip. "Anything that helps you to get out of here sooner is better, and you just have to prove that you're fine, like you always do, and we'll be back solving cases as soon as we can."

John fidgeted. Sherlock had said that he didn't talk for days on end, but that had never really happened. Sure, Sherlock could be rather studiously silent sometimes, but never for days on end and never like this. John didn't know how to handle this.

So, he talked.

Talked about stuff that he knew Sherlock would never, ever care to hear if he were conscious enough to say _shut up_. He talked about training at Barts. He talked about boot camp. He talked about Afghanistan, the war, the wounds, the patients, about the gunfire and the bombs. He talked about getting shot, about returning to London, about how everything was so _boring_, so mind-numbingly boring, after the war. How he had struggled with post-traumatic stress disorder, terribly, waking up those first few weeks, drenched in sweat and screaming, drawing his knees to his chest to sob. How he had started to spiral into a depression so dark that even a therapist wasn't going to help. How finding Sherlock had brought meaning to his life. How the cases and the chases and the criminals and the murders and the damn body parts in the refrigerator drove away his nightmares. How Sherlock was pertinent to John's well-being and how he needed him, more than anything else in the world, and that he hated himself for letting this happen to him, how he was a terrible flatmate and a worse best friend and even more, a terrible doctor because he couldn't stop him hurting.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks by this point. He rubbed them away, but there was a sob building on his lips. He buried his face into his hands, unable to choke it back.

He was glad that Sherlock wasn't conscious for this bit. He couldn't see John cry, not now. Not when what Sherlock needed right now was _normality_. Not John sobbing by his bedside like he was dead or dying.

Sherlock would be alright. Sherlock would be alright, because he _had_ to be.

John would make sure of it.

* * *

**I said that he woke up in this chapter, but I didn't say what happened with it. Flashbacks to what Sherlock went through start in the next chapter, so... The mystery begins to unravel.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	5. Added Pressure

**Warnings: Psychological responses, mild sexual innuendo, swearing, mild depictions of torture.**

* * *

John wasn't allowed to stay in the room while the psychiatrist talked to Sherlock, which John knew was protocol but he didn't _understand_ it from his best friend point of view. Sherlock could deduce everything about John with one look. He didn't care what people thought. John was his _best friend_. Why couldn't he be with him?

_Doctor-patient confidentiality_, whispered the doctor part of John's brain.

John groaned and waved it away, pacing outside Sherlock's room.

The morning had passed without much incident. Sherlock slept and never spoke. He didn't seem conscious of the IV or the pulse monitor or the catheter, or that John was by his side as long as he could be. He didn't so much as blink at the idea of therapy, which made John feel sick because he knew Sherlock had to be cursing at them all on the inside. And then he was hit with the sick thought that Sherlock was _trapped_, in his own body, and John had spent the better part of twenty minutes curled next to the hospital toilet with his arms around his stomach.

The psychiatrist stepped out of Sherlock's room just then. John immediately perked up, before realizing he couldn't ask, anyway. He placated himself with knowing that Mycroft would get the information on how it went. After all, Mycroft had had information from _John's_ therapist when he had first met him. He could make it happen.

During Sherlock's therapy, John soon found, _nothing_ happened. Sherlock didn't so much as bat an eyelash at the psychiatrist had talked to him, talked _at_ him, tried to get something, _anything_, out of him. Nothing. Not so much as a sigh.

"Something's wrong," John murmured, rubbing his thumb against the back of Sherlock's hand. "Something besides the obvious."

There were marks on Sherlock's wrists, and his ankles. He had clearly been restrained... John felt sick if he thought about it, though.

Sherlock was asleep right now; his eyes were closed and his breathing evened out. He looked so peaceful, relaxed... and vulnerable.

John brushed Sherlock's hair out of his eyes, resting his hand on his forehead.

"Yes," Mycroft murmured.

The elder Holmes hadn't once left the hospital, John suspected, but he rarely was in Sherlock's room. He had only joined John ten minutes ago and they had been in a terrible silence since. It wasn't Mycroft's fault. John just didn't know what to say.

"What can I do, Mycroft?" John asked, looking up at the elder Holmes.

Mycroft didn't meet his gaze, as his eyes were still on Sherlock. "I couldn't begin to fathom a guess, John."

John looked sadly back at Sherlock. "He's so intelligent. He's so intelligent, but now his mind is holding him back because of something that somebody did to him. This isn't fair."

"It isn't. But 'fair' isn't a word that I could pin to my brother's life in any circumstance."

John sighed. "If they don't get something out of him, he's going to end up in the psych ward, Mycroft. He's going to end up locked in a little room with his mind tearing away at itself."

Mycroft shifted his weight, but didn't respond.

"He'd rather die than end up in a padded cell, you know that, right?" John asked, looking at Mycroft again. "You can't let that happen, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded slightly. "I know, John. But even in a comatose state, my brother refuses to work with me."

John was quick to jump to Sherlock's defence. "It's not his fault."

"In this instance, I believe you wholeheartedly."

* * *

Throughout the day, policemen showed up to take pictures. John was glad that Sherlock was unconscious for that. The pictures were protocol with any assault, but John found the whole process a bit insensitive.

They shuffled John out of the room to undress Sherlock to take pictures of the rest of his wounds, which John found ridiculous, but he didn't complain. When he was allowed back in the room, Sherlock was wearing the gown again and the policemen were bagging Sherlock's clothing.

"Shirt, jacket, coat, scarf, two gloves, trousers, pants, two socks, two shoes. Is that his normal wardrobe?" questioned one of the police.

John nodded. "Yes. It sounds fine." That was what Sherlock had been wearing, three days ago, when he had left the flat.

The police finished with their procedure and left the room. John wondered, vaguely, what the police were even going to be able to investigate- Sherlock hadn't given them a report and he didn't seem like he was going to.

Hours passed. Nothing changed.

John only left to use the loo and once to find something to eat and a coffee to drink. Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly were in and out of the room, but John rarely spoke and never took his eyes off of Sherlock.

* * *

_"Come on, Tiff. We've got stuff to do."_

_"Oh, this one's gorgeous. Who is he?" Fingers trailed down the buttons on Sherlock's shirt._

_"Sherlock Holmes."_

_"Not_ the_ Sherlock Holmes."_

_"Yes, that one. Can we get a move on?"_

_Fingers traced along Sherlock's stomach before suddenly there was a ripping noise as his shirt was torn open. "He's so fucking hot, Reg. I've gotta admire this one."_

_"Admire later, you bitch! Let's go!"_

_"Fine... Don't get your panties in a twist." The hand splayed across Sherlock's chest vanished. "Behave yourself, Sherlock. I can't wait to get to know you."_

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together. His fingers clenched towards a fist. His heart rate was increasing.

_Pain._

_Sherlock was alright with pain. He could block it out. His mind palace was his refuge and he could successfully ignore the bite of a blade against his ribcage. He could forget the burn of his wrists as the chain bit into them. He could delete the memory of pain so intense that it knocked him unconscious, and when he woke up, his leg hurt to move._

_Sherlock didn't wince as something painful sliced against his hip._

His breathing increasing, Sherlock's fingers twitched again. His eyelids fluttered uselessly, his face draining of colour.

_There was a half second warning before Sherlock hit the ground with a_ thud_. He landed heavily on his side and only just bit back the groan of pain. He drew his shaking legs close to his chest, an automatic reflex against the pain and the cold of concrete floor._

_"Sit up!"_

_Something painful slammed against his back and Sherlock felt the breath rush from his lips. It landed again, and again, and again, and he was grateful when blackness finally took over his vision._

* * *

"Sherlock!" John demanded, shaking Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up! Wake up!"

Sherlock had started twitching, squirming in his sleep. The eye movement under his eyelids meant REM sleep. REM sleep meant dreams and Sherlock's dreams were clearly not pleasant.

He had started whimpering and John had felt his heart breaking as he stood to shake the detective awake.

Sherlock jolted awake, his face finally taking on an emotion: raw panic.

"It's okay, Sherlock, it's me, it's John," he murmured, taking Sherlock's hand tightly. "You're fine. You're okay, I promise, you're okay."

Sherlock didn't move, breathing heavily from the dream, but John was just happy that he was awake now. No nightmares. No reliving the past three days.

Pressure suddenly constrained John's hand.

Sherlock had curled his fingers around John's fingers and was squeezing his hand tightly.

John didn't hesitate to return the pressure.

* * *

**Sherlock's slowly returning to his mind... or, rather, his mind is letting him return.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	6. Shiver and Shake

**Warnings: Injury and medical procedures. Nothing terrible to note.**

* * *

Sherlock didn't speak.

As that were, the detective _did_ seem to be more alive after the nightmare. He didn't talk, but his eyes followed John or Mycroft or the doctors as they walked around the room. He closed his eyes when the psychiatrist tried to get him to talk. He even rolled his eyes, on one occasion, when someone mentioned a feeding tube- and that was it for John. He brought him tomato soup or fruit smoothies as soon as the doctor said that Sherlock could have food.

John was slowly finding optimism. Not much, because it had now been over a week since John had heard Sherlock's voice, but John was finding it. Even if had taken three days in hospital to get Sherlock to so much as roll over onto his side on his own volition.

But this was good. Sherlock was returning. Soon, he'd be calling them all stupid and this course of treatment utterly idiotic. John was sure of it.

Sherlock scraped his spoon against the surface of his frozen sorbet. He was idly staring at the pale red coloured frozen treat, looking as though he might dissect it rather than eat it. The look made John smile to himself before he watched Sherlock take a bite of the sorbet.

"Any good?"

Sherlock raised one shoulder, slightly, in a miniscule shrug.

"That doesn't tell me anything, Sherlock," John joked weakly, leaning back in his chair. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but the shrug made him want to get up and hug Sherlock. Progress. "Did you hear Mycroft talking to you, earlier? He said he should be able to get you home, maybe as soon as tomorrow."

Sherlock looked at him quickly, eyes a bit wide. Clearly, he _hadn't_ heard Mycroft telling him this.

"Yeah, but-" John added quickly- "just _maybe_. Don't try to work yourself up about it. I don't even know how Mycroft's managing it," he muttered. "You haven't said a word, although your neuro exam or scans didn't show anything..."

That said that, whatever this was, it was psychological. Hence the therapy that Sherlock wouldn't take to. But. The one resounding good bit about all of this was that Sherlock was responding to stimuli now.

Sherlock irritably- it seemed- dug his spoon into the sorbet cup.

John laughed quietly, stretching. "Well, I'm sure you'll be happy to get back home. I may still have to connect you to an IV, but... No, don't give me that look. It's better than being locked up in a little room, right?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared in a withheld huff, as he stabbed his spoon into his frozen dessert again.

It was just then that Sherlock gave a small gasp. John snapped his attention back to Sherlock in time to watch the sorbet cup fall. John made a grab for it, noticing Sherlock tense up almost simultaneously. His attention moved from the sorbet cup as Sherlock started to convulse.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

The sorbet cup bounced to the floor.

John focussed on Sherlock, his doctor's training taking over as his mind prompted him to roll Sherlock onto his side, into the recovery position. He didn't have the mind about him to press the Call Nurse button, but alarms were going off and John just wrenched his sleeve up, counting the ticking of the second hand on his watch, passing the seconds as Sherlock convulsed beneath his hands.

John hated seizures. They were always so painful to watch, when you couldn't do anything about them. That pain was acclimatised when it was his best friend twitching on the table.

Nurses and orderlys rushed into the room, but John didn't move. He was a doctor. He could handle a seizing patient.

After forty-six seconds, Sherlock went limp. John sighed heavily, told the nurse the convulsion time, and pressed his fingers against Sherlock's wrist.

His pulse was manic, but what did John expect?

John pulled the oxygen line free, fitting the oxygen mask over Sherlock's nose and mouth. He knew that it would be ripped off the moment Sherlock woke up, but until then, it would help.

He then stepped out of the way as the nurses and orderlys talked amongst themselves, as the doctor joined them and had a hushed conversation over Sherlock's bed.

"Is that PTS?" John inquired, when the doctor joined him again.

"We're going to run some more tests, but given that trauma occured in the past week, it could be late-onset PTS."

It didn't surprise John, what with the concussion that Sherlock had, but still, post-traumatic seizures could easily lead into post-traumatic epilepsy... and John hoped that that wouldn't happen. He knew the doctors would administer an anti-epileptic drug, to try and prevent further seizures, but... Any TBI could have worse consquences than a headache and John was annoyed that he hadn't been thinking about that. He had just been letting himself believe that Sherlock was getting better.

John blew out a sigh heavily, nodding before returning to his seat at the edge of the bed.

"Okay, Sherlock. You're going to be fine," John muttered, pushing Sherlock's sweat-drenched bangs out of his eyes. He picked up a cloth from the table and the pitcher of water, pouring water onto it. He used it to wipe away the sweat from Sherlock's face. "Everything's going to be fine."

Sherlock groaned in his unconsciousness, as if to say that John's stupidity (or maybe it was his sentiment) was driving him crazy.

John just continued to wipe down Sherlock's face, monitoring his stats.

When Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, John didn't move, just smiled down at him weakly to try and make Sherlock think that everything was alright.

Sherlock, however, didn't seem quite so accepting- especially not with the oxygen mask. His fingers clumsily reached up to remove it, but John stopped him.

"Leave it on. Please?"

Sherlock pushed his hand away, not following John's instructions.

"Sherlock, if you take the mask off, you need to let me hook you up with the oxygen prongs, at least. You had a seizure. Oxygen isn't going to hurt."

Sherlock paused, although he did take the oxygen mask off. John could practically see the cogs working in Sherlock's mind, trying to think, probably about the seizure.

John reached for the oxygen prongs, offering the line to Sherlock. Sherlock turned his head away slightly, closing his eyes. John sighed in a huffy breath, reaching forward to press the oxygen prongs into Sherlock's nostrils. Sherlock groaned slightly, raising a hand to push John away, but John didn't let him.

"No, stop it. Leave it."

Sherlock sighed heavily, but let his hand drop.

John smiled faintly. _You win some, you lose some_, he thought, although he was much more worried than he would ever let on.

* * *

**Notes:  
****  
PTS- Post-traumatic seizure  
PTE- Post-traumatic epilepsy  
TBI- Traumatic brain injury**

**Sorbet- Most Americans probably know this as sherbet. Yeah. Boggled my brain, too.**

**More into Sherlock's memory in the next chapter. I do not own _Sherlock_.**

**Thanks!**


	7. Living a Nightmare

**Warnings: Mild descriptions of wounds, mentions of drug abuse, sexual innuendo, violence (depictions of torture including knives).**

* * *

Somehow, miraculously, Mycroft managed to get Sherlock discharged. John didn't ask; he didn't care. Sherlock seemed to be fine, physically, asides from the extensive wounds and their side effects. The colour returned to his face, his eyes lost their sunken in, vacant look, the black eye diminshed, and Sherlock constantly turned his nose up at the doctoring he was recieving. The oxygen line was not needed, the catheter removed, and the IV was used solely for antibiotics and no longer for hydration.

Mentally, though...

Sherlock was still having nightmares, there were moments when his eyes were distant, he flinched at loud noises, and he never once spoke. The most that John got out of him was Sherlock groaning when the (hospital) doctor had mentioned that Sherlock was on morphine.

Of course, John knew this. Mycroft knew this. But Sherlock had a broken leg and broken ribs and a broken nose and other painful injuries, and a terrible tolerance to most lower-strength painkillers. He and Mycroft had begrudgingly allowed a low dose of morphine- the doctors didn't know about Sherlock's drug problems. Apparently, Sherlock had never ended up in hospital for it, or, at least, never in a hospital that Mycroft didn't have influence over. It didn't surprise John... Sherlock was always meticulous, so why shouldn't have he been meticulous when he took drugs, too?

John didn't condone Sherlock's past, or condone the morphine that they had Sherlock on now, but watching Sherlock trying not to writhe in pain had made John's stomach hurt. So, a low dose of morphine. And John promised himself that he wouldn't let Sherlock fall victim to a morphine addiction. No. He would _not_.

John walked back into Sherlock's room, carrying a cup of tea. He was alarmed to find Sherlock out of bed, standing painfully, struggling with clothes that Mycroft had brought earlier.

"Sherlock- Sherlock, what _are_ you doing?" John asked, quickly stepping forward to grip Sherlock's shoulders. "Sherlock, you need to lay down!"

Sherlock didn't react, only tried and failed to untie his hospital gown.

"Sherlock, just because they said you can leave doesn't mean you need to leave this _instant_!" John said, concerned because his friend was visibly shaking. "Sherlock, you need to rest, you're working yourself up!"

Sherlock looked down at him then, his eyes pleading. He looked like he was ready to break down in tears.

John backed down.

"Alright... Alright, hang on, I'll help you. Sit down," he murmured, setting down his cup of tea and helping Sherlock to sit. He walked over to the door, locked it lest someone decided to walk in on Sherlock changing, and quietly untied the back of Sherlock's gown. "You don't have to be so pushy," he murmured, easing the gown away from Sherlock carefully. "You don't need to run out of here as soon as they say you can... I know you want to get back to Baker Street, but you've been through the mill, Sherlock. You can't push yourself."

His breath caught as, with a little help from Sherlock, the gown fell to the ground. It wasn't as though John hadn't seen Sherlock's wounds, but he'd been wearing clothes, then, and... this was so much worse.

There were bruises covering nearly every part of Sherlock's body.

Dark blues and blacks and purples were splotched across Sherlock's chest and stomach, a sharp contrast to Sherlock's always pale skin. Yellows were tinging the bruises, now that they were having time to heal, but the left side of his ribcage was still covered in dark marks. There were gashes, some with stitches now, against his sides and hips, scratches down his leg that wasn't covered with the cast. Of course John had already been able to see the bruises on Sherlock's arms, but then there was his back, which was mottled with reminders of what had happened in the past week.

John swallowed, looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock just shrugged slightly and held out a pair of trousers. John sighed shakily, and, feeling sick, helped Sherlock to get his legs in the correct pants-leg.

"Don't get up yet..." he mumbled, after shimmying Sherlock's trousers on the best he could. He picked up the shirt, carefully helping Sherlock slip his arms into it before clasping the buttons. "You want the jacket?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

John picked up Sherlock's jacket, helping him with that as well. Of course Sherlock would be worried about keeping up appearances, even though he'd been half tortured to death. John fastened the one button on the jacket and found Sherlock's shoes under the bed.

After Sherlock had his clothes on, more or less, John offered a hand and helped Sherlock to stand and let him pull up his own trousers to his hips.

"Good?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded, again, only slightly.

"'kay." John helped him sit back down. "You have paperwork to sign. Just stay put for a few minutes, alright?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, but John took it as an affirmative.

* * *

Getting back to Baker Street had never been so relieving. Sherlock practically tripped up the stairs in his haste to get back home, although John could hardly admonish him. It had been a week since Sherlock had been home. Ever since he had been... detained, getting home had probably been the only thing on Sherlock's mind.

He paused in the doorway, casting his gaze around the flat. John heard him sigh, almost silently, before shuffling back towards his bedroom, his crutches thumping against the hardwood floor.

"Take your coat off if you're going to bed!" John called, shrugging his own coat off.

* * *

_"What do you think? Isn't he nice?" the woman, Tiffany, asked, as she traced her fingers against Sherlock's stomach._

_Sherlock couldn't help how tense he was. His mind was telling his stupid, useless transport to relax, but it was to no avail. He didn't like it when people invaded his personal space, much less when he was stripped nearly naked in front of them. He didn't have problems with his body or showing it off- he had no privacy _or_ modesty issues, as John often said- but this was a bit different._

_"Sure. Fine. Whatever," replied the man, Reg, sounding bored._

_"Are you sure I can't-"_

_"If you do, you're going to find yourself tied up next to him," Reg said. "I won't stand for you being a little whore."_

_"But, Reg," Tiffany whined, walking away from Sherlock and over to Reg._

_It was clear that these two were together, romantically, or, at least, sexually, and that Reg was really protective, over-protective... and that was the only reason Sherlock hadn't lost his pants. Yet. He still wasn't confident on the idea if he was going to get out of here with his virginity in tact. Probability undetermined._

_Sherlock closed his eyes._

Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears, thumping frantically in his chest. His wrists burned and his legs cramped. He stretched slightly, reflexively, with a groan.

_It was a knife. It was definitely a pen-knife, that was digging into his side, causing blood to ooze down his hips._

_He didn't make a sound as the knife slipped and sliced the side of his pants open. Accident. Although Tiffany had no remorse._

_Pain welled against his thigh, when the knife had grazed it, and he squirmed instictively before he could stop._

_"Come on, Sherlock!" Tiffany said. "I told you not to move!"_

_There was a sharp stinging and a loud crack. Sherlock's head snapped to the side with the force of the slap, his cheek and chin stinging painfully afterwards._

_"Give me a reason why I shouldn't carve those cheekbones right out of your face," she breathed, and Sherlock felt the point of the knife against his cheek._

_He barely dared to breathe._

_Just wait, Sherlock. John'll be here soon. Maybe. Although three days really wasn't long enough for Mycroft to be worrying. Besides, they had ditched Sherlock's mobile. Sherlock's mobile was the only thing that had a GPS tracking device on it. Mycroft couldn't have found him without some serious trouble, and Mycroft wouldn't worry about only three days._

_You'll be free soon. Soon, Sherlock, soon._

Sherlock ducked his head, curling in on himself. His entire body was wracked with aches and pains and Sherlock whimpered slightly, clutching the blanket.

_Sherlock lashed out, slamming his feet into Tiffany's back._

_Normally, he had very little desire to ever attack a woman... but there were some instances where it designated violence for him. Like being chained up for over twenty-four hours without food or water or bathroom breaks- basically, all the things that he normally neglected that he might have_ _killed for now._

_Tiffany hit the floor with a loud _thud_ and a sharp shriek that grazed on Sherlock's eardrums. He struggled against the man holding his arms, managing to break free for a half second. He slammed his fist towards the man's stomach, planning to make a break for it._

_But, suddenly, a massive weight tackled him to the ground and he struggled vainly. A week long case left him exhausted on a good day, but not eating and barely drinking or sleeping through a week long case, _and_ being chained up for a whole day, left him weak and tired and his legs and arms numb._

_Fingers knitted into his hair and his head was suddenly slammed back against the concrete ground. Pain assailed him, nausea overwhelmed him, and he had the briefest moment of intense satisfaction as he vomited on his attacker._

_"Don't you _ever_ touch her _again_," snarled the voice- Reg._

_The fingers in Sherlock's hair tightened and he had a brief second to steel himself as pain assailed him again._

_He didn't vomit again, but darkness swam before his eyes. He couldn't struggle; it was too much pain and he was too weak and his strength had been wasted on the half-arsed attack. And he was pretty sure that he had been drugged. Sometime._

_"Do you hear me? Or I'll make _sure_ that you don't!"_

_Something different slammed against the side of Sherlock's head. His hearing became fuzzy and his ears started to ring._

_Pain bloomed from his stomach this time. He was left gasping and choking for breath, trying to roll over to vomit again, so he didn't choke, but he couldn't breathe, and the pain was still coming; it was so intense. His eyes were watering and there was vomit on the back of his tongue and still there was pain, pain-_

* * *

**Sherlock doesn't live in a beautiful textbook world. The nightmares are just beginning. (But there's comfort with the hurt. So some good old bonding is in order. :)]**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	8. Psychological Progress

**Warnings: Psychological reactions that may squick you out!**

* * *

John was awoken by yelling.

He nearly fell down the stairs in his haste to run to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, Sherlock, wake up!" he said, stopping next to the bed. Sherlock was thrashing around, tangled up in the blankets, his face a mask of horror and pain. "Sherlock! Wake up, come on, you're alright!" He shook his shoulder roughly, trying to draw Sherlock from unconsciousness. "Wake up!"

Sherlock awoke with a yelp- something that John had never heard Sherlock do- sitting bolt upright and flinching back against the headboard with so much force that it hit the wall, when he found John standing over him.

"Sherlock, it's me!" John said, holding up his hands and taking a step back. "It's just me, it's John. You're fine."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his eyes wild.

John wanted to... He curled his hands into fists, trying to contain his building rage. The people who had done this to Sherlock... Those people...

Sherlock suddenly twisted out of the way, throwing up violently onto the floor. John couldn't help but flinch as it splattered.

"You're okay," John murmured. "Everything's okay now. Alright?"

Sherlock scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and sighed shakily. He seemed to realize what was going on now, at least.

John gave him a strained smile, leaning down to pick up the sheet and blankets that had fallen to the floor. It was only when he picked them up that he noted that they were sopping wet. John blinked in confusion. Sherlock was sweating, but he wasn't sweating _that_ much.

"Sherlock?" John said, looking up. "Why are the blankets all wet?"

Sherlock's lips twitched towards a frown, his normally pale face beginning to dust with pale pink across his cheekbones. He shrunk upon himself slightly, and, when he drew his legs to his chest, John could see that his pyjama bottoms were wet and clinging to his thighs.

"Oh," John said pathetically. "Okay. You don't-" He took a breath. "Okay. Shower, Sherlock, and change your clothes. I'll change the sheets. Don't worry about it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, although he didn't move.

John sighed. "Do you want to sit in those soaking pyjamas all night? Come on, Sherlock, it happens to all of us."

Sherlock still didn't move.

"Do you want me to run a bath?" John asked.

Sherlock paused before nodding, only the slightest movement of his head.

"Alright. Come on." He offered his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock looked away. "... Alright, then," John mumbled, turning for the bathroom.

He could understand Sherlock's hesitance to get out of bed with an audience. It was embarrassing... but it wasn't like it hadn't happened to John at some point. He'd had nightmares all the time before. It wasn't like he hadn't wet the bed on occasion, what with _his_ nightmares... even though he admittingly tried to forget those nights.

Sherlock sidled into the bathroom after the water had run. His pyjama pants were soaked. He hadn't changed out of them, but his face was beet red and he exuded embarrassment.

"You're alright, Sherlock," John said. "It's happened to me before. Don't worry about it, alright?" He turned to turn the tap off.

"This is disgusting..."

John's heart jumped straight to his throat when he heard Sherlock's voice. He actually felt tears sting his eyes, which was ridiculous, and he resisted from whipping around to smile at the detective. Instead, he just turned the tap off and straightened up, his actions controlled.

"Yes, it's rather uncomfortable," he said absently. "You need to get those off," he said, pointing to Sherlock's trousers. "Your cast isn't supposed to be getting wet."

"Sorry..." Sherlock mumbled, although he didn't move.

John blinked slowly. "Do you need help?"

"Maybe..." he mumbled, shifting awkwardly on his crutches. "It's... difficult to get dressed..." he mumbled. "Or undressed..."

"Alright." Surprisingly, this didn't bother him. Normally he was yelling at Sherlock to put clothes on _before_ he stepped out of the bathroom, not helping him take them off. But, it didn't matter now. Nothing mattered except Sherlock's health.

John pushed the bathroom door closed before turning back to Sherlock, although not before John noting the detective rolling his eyes.

"What?" John muttered. "I don't want Mrs. Hudson to get weird ideas."

"No, you're concerned about my privacy, which is annoying, John," Sherlock replied, sounding more like his normal self than he had before.

"Sorry that I care," John said, a bit sarcastically, peeling the trousers away from Sherlock's legs. He could practically _feel_ Sherlock's face turning more red. "Literally, Sherlock, I've dealt with a lot worse than someone wetting the bed. A _lot_ worse. I need you to sit down. Give me your crutches."

Sherlock did so, mumbling something under his breath.

"Hm?" John mumbled, helping Sherlock sit on the edge of the bathtub.

"This has never happened to me..." Sherlock said, a bit louder.

"Really?" John replied absently, focussing on working Sherlock's wet pyjamas over the bulky cast. "Not even as a kid?"

"Not once..."

"Impressive," John said, working the pyjamas off. "First time for everything." He stood. "Arms up."

"I can manage..."

"Can you? Because you're covered in bruises and I'd guess that moving hurts."

Sherlock sighed heavily and let John take off his shirt. "Now that you've successfully managed to strip me naked, can I have a bath?" he asked in a monotone.

John smiled. "Yes. But you can't get the cast wet."

Sherlock looked at him, his annoyance almost reaching his eyes. "How am I supposed to manage that?"

"Prop your foot up. On the side of the bath."

"How am I supposed to get into the bath by standing on _one_ foot?" Sherlock retorted, struggling to his feet.

That _was_ a good question. "Er... Okay, I'll help. Hang on." John bent down, rolling up the cuffs of his own sweats. Afterwards, he stepped into the bath, earning raised eyebrows from Sherlock. "Give me your hands. Put your weight on your good leg. I won't let you fall."

It was difficult, with a little bit of stumbling and quite a bit of splashing, but John managed to get Sherlock into the water without his cast getting wet. John's trousers, however, soaked to his knees by the point that he sat down on the floor, sighing tiredly.

"... Thanks," Sherlock mumbled.

John smiled faintly. "You're welcome, Sherlock."

They fell into a silence that wasn't _too_ awkward, given the circumstances. John didn't want to leave Sherlock alone in the bath, just in case, and Sherlock would need his help to get out of the bath when he was finished.

"Can I ask what you were dreaming about?" John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock?"

Still, no response. It appeared that Sherlock was not going to be talking about whatever he had been dreaming about, although John was almost positive it was about the three days that he had been tortured throughout.

"Okay," John murmured. "That's okay. Whenever you feel like it," he mumbled.

They were left in silence again and, this time, it was uncomfortable.

* * *

**Sorry if I squicked anyone out, but there are worse psychological reactions that could happen. And this is a story about dealing with psychological ramifications, so, again, I'm sorry if it grossed anyone out. BUT. Sherlock's talking again! Good news! Yes? Yes. Except it's not all good news. There's still a _lot_ of recovery to go through.**

**I still do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	9. The Barriers Break

**Warnings: Language, psychological effects, semi-awkward situations that aren't meant to be slash but could be considered.**

* * *

By the fifth morning, John was as exhausted as Sherlock looked.

He methodically stripped Sherlock's sheets while Sherlock sat on the bedroom floor, his knees to his chest and his gaze distant.

"Sherlock, go wash up. Please?"

"I don't wanna go back to bed," Sherlock mumbled.

"You _have_ to sleep, Sherlock, so go wash up. You're not getting back in bed with those pyjamas on."

John finally wrenched the fitted sheet away from the mattress. Much more of this and he was going to have to buy a mattress protector so Sherlock didn't ruin the mattress. And that would be yet another hit to Sherlock's state, but what was John supposed to do? Let Sherlock sleep on a piss-laden mattress? No.

"Every time I sleep, this happens," Sherlock said, in the same lacklustre tone.

"Well, at least you get a few hours."

"I don't want to."

"Just go get washed up, Sherlock."

"No."

John threw the blankets down. "Fine!" Sherlock flinched, but it didn't seem to register with John. "Do what you want, Sherlock. Why do I even try to help you? If you so fucking set on doing it all yourself, then do it!"

Sherlock was staring up at him with wide eyes, his form trembling. His deep brown curls were shaking and his eyes were filled with something that looked like borderline panic.

John felt all of his anger dissipate. It was replaced with the worst sensation that he'd ever experienced, even including his experiences in Afghanistan.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean, I meant... I'm sorry." He held up his hands, carefully stepping over next to Sherlock. Sherlock leaned away as John sat down next to him slowly. "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault. I shouldn't be yelling." He sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. "I want to help you. I really do, just let me know how. Please. _Please_."

Sherlock sighed shakily. "I'll get washed up," he mumbled, struggling to his feet.

John immediately stood with him, helping him to his feet, but Sherlock jerked away from his touch. John felt tears spring to his eyes.

He was such a terrible person. Terrible, terrible.

John took Sherlock's sheets again and carried them to the laundry. He put them in the wash, returned to Sherlock's room, and re-made the bed. Sherlock hadn't limped from the bathroom at this point and John paused at the door.

"Sherlock?" he asked, but didn't receive a response. He could the cabinet door squeak; Sherlock must be getting his toothpaste. "Sherlock, I'm running out to Tesco. Your bed's made. Go back to sleep. I'll be back in a bit, alright? Mrs. Hudson will be up to check on you."

He wasn't really going to Tesco. He didn't even change out of his pyjamas, just shoved his shoes on and grabbed his coat. He asked Mrs. Hudson to check on Sherlock in a bit and hailed a cab, his own words echoing in his ears.

_Why do I even try to help you? ... doing it all yourself, then do it!... Do what you want..._

How- _Why_-

John didn't really know where he was going. He didn't have close friends like Sherlock. Sherlock was the one person he could be comfortable, truly comfortable around, and he couldn't confide in Sherlock right now.

He ended up at his sister's. Maybe it was only because he knew that she would have alcohol.

"John? What's wrong?" she questioned, frowning. Good. She wasn't blasted out of her mind. Good.

"Harry," he rasped.

"John? John, what did he do?"

"He's hurting, Harry. He's hurting and I can't help him." Unbidden tears spilled over his eyelashes. "I can't help..."

That was how he ended up curled up on his sister's sofa, his face buried against her shoulder, sobbing until he vomited. The one nice thing about that was that he marginally better afterwards, and Harry _did_ give him a rather large glass of scotch, and he sat, sipping at it, as his hands shook and his stomach churned and the tears dried on his face.

He didn't stay to chat. He left without so much as a thank you- which he knew he would regret later- and hailed a cab back to Baker Street.

He walked into the flat and found Sherlock on the sofa, although Sherlock didn't look up. John shucked off his coat and shoes and sank onto the couch next to him.

Sherlock didn't flinch and John was infinitely relieved.

"You smell like scotch..." Sherlock muttered, still not looking away from the far wall.

"What?"

"You didn't go to Tesco," Sherlock said.

"Oh."

John didn't know what to say, but Sherlock took care of the silence.

"I'm sorry, John."

John looked at him in surprise. "What? For what?"

"I'm being... difficult," Sherlock murmured, still not looking up.

John sat up slightly. "No. No, Sherlock, you are allowed to be difficult. You are allowed to hate the world right now. Curse and cry and scream. But don't apologise."

Sherlock seemed to deflate slightly. His shoulders slumped and he seemed to curl in on himself, looking small and vulnerable again.

"Can I... Can I sleep, here, on the sofa?" Sherlock mumbled, looking at him slightly. "With you... somewhere nearby? Sitting there or... something?" he said quietly, not meeting John's gaze again. "It's just... the nightmares..."

Sherlock had _finally_ admitted to the nightmares. _Finally_.

John smiled faintly. "Yes. Yes, whatever you want, Sherlock, just ask. Let me get a pillow," he said, getting to his feet. He took the Union Jack pillow from his chair and sat down again. "Do you want to sleep, well, at that end or...?" he trailed off awkwardly.

Sure, he could sit across the room in his chair or he could sit on the floor, neither of which would be particularly comforting (or comfortable). Physical contact rendered fear less troublesome, and...

Sherlock mumbled something, but it was deliberately slurred. John figured that Sherlock's mind had immediately gone to the same conclusion as John's. It wasn't like he didn't understand why Sherlock was seeking the comfort- he did- and maybe that was why he didn't hesitate. He imagined that he would do pretty much anything at this point to bring a bit of relief to his best friend.

"Come on, then," John said, thumping the pillow into his lap. "I hope you don't mind my reading," he said, picking up a dog-earred book from the book, "while you sleep."

Sherlock shook his head, hesitating only a moment before curling up, resting his head on the pillow. He was tense. John didn't push him to relax, although he did place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder after a moment.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock," he murmured.

"Wake me up if I so much as twitch, John... Please."

John tried to maintain an expression that said _no, my heart is _not_ breaking_. "I will. Don't worry about the nightmares. I'll keep them away."

"Hope so..." Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes.

Sherlock was so exhausted that it didn't take long for him to fall asleep. John noted the dramatic change immediately.

The detective's tension left his shoulders. He stretched out slightly. His fingers curled around John's jumper absently, and his face actually looked peaceful.

John hoped that the nightmares didn't come back. He really hoped so.

* * *

By the time that Sherlock woke up- woke up on his own accord, and not because of nightmares and/or further accidents- it was well into the afternoon. John's legs were numb, his stomach was growling, and he had to go the bathroom, but he didn't care about any of that. They were all overshadowed by watching Sherlock's eyelids flutter open and having those beautiful eyes peer up at him sleepily.

"You didn't move..." Sherlock mumbled.

"No," John said, smiling. "But I sort of need to, sometime soon, anyway. I'm glad to see that you didn't have nightmares," he continued.

Sherlock's lips twitched towards the _slightest_ ghost of a smile. "Yes... Thank you for that," he murmured.

"I didn't do anything," John said.

"More than you can know," Sherlock replied.

John shifted uncomfortably. "I'm... glad," he muttered. "Do you need anything?"

"No. Just... just staying here for a moment," Sherlock murmured. "If you don't mind..."

"I don't mind at all."

John didn't know how, but he started combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair at one point. Sherlock had closed his eyes and fallen into a relaxed state again. It was nice, finally, to be able to sit here with Sherlock like, well, not _normal_ times, certainly, but without having Sherlock flinch at a loud noise or staring off into space or seeming to be off in a different world. It was progress. It had to be progress, didn't it?

"John?"

John looked down at Sherlock again. "Hm?"

Sherlock's eyes were staring straight ahead, towards the ceiling as he spoke:

"I remember everything."

* * *

**Oh yes. He does. And it is not at all, _not_ at all, good. Forgive the slight OOC-ness, but, in my opinion, Sherlock is allowed to be OOC after all of this mess has happened.**

**For the reviewer who asked why I update late at night: I do most of my writing at night. I'm a night owl. =p**

**I do not own _Sherlock_, as per the usual. Thank you!**


	10. Reminiscing

**Warnings: Descriptions of torture (mild descriptions, along with threats on John's physical health that are a bit... grim) _including_: sensory deprivation, electric shock, psychological torture (again, the threats on John's health); swearing/profanities, mentions of drugs, mentions of being held hostage, and the general however-you-take-it John and Sherlock's relationship.**

* * *

_"__John?"_

_"Hm?"_

_"I remember everything."_

* * *

"Yeah...?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't look away from the ceiling. He _did_ remember everything. Or rather, everything was _there_, just below the surface, and Sherlock was _trying_ not to remember it, but it kept slipping into daily life and, even worse, his unconscious mind.

"They drugged me... Said that I was going to make up for having him held in jail for three days... And they kept me, tied up, for three days... An eye for an eye, John," he mumbled.

"Who, Sherlock?"

"I don't know... Reg... Someone I obviously put in jail."

Sherlock closed his eyes again, focussing on John's fingers drawing through his hair. He had survived like this, those three days: by envisioning that he was somewhere else and doing something entirely different. By focussing on anything else but the torture.

"Oh..."

"They drugged me somehow... and when I came to, I was tied up in this filthy abandoned warehouse. My wrists were bound with rope," Sherlock muttered, absently curling his fingers around his rope-burned wrists. He could still feel their presence. "And my ankle were bound with handcuffs... sometimes... Or, sometimes, I wasn't bound at all, but I couldn't move... The drug made me exhausted, I was already tired from the case, and they kept... _hurting_ me."

John shifted uncomfortably.

Sherlock knew that John was terribly upset about all of this. He wouldn't have snapped at him if he wasn't upset- tired and upset. And Sherlock didn't blame him... He was being difficult, but his tongue felt heavy and his mouth felt filled with cotton every time that he tried to _think_ about talking about it. That being said, he still felt like he could vomit even now.

"At first, it was alright... Being tied up hurts, but not as bad as the knife would, or the riding crop or whip, whatever it was, would, or the shock collar would-"

"_Shock collar_?" John gasped.

Sherlock opened his eyes to flicker his gaze towards John. "Yes. The sort of collars that are used to train dogs."

John looked pale. His lips were pressed together tightly and Sherlock could tell that he was struggling with nausea and he hoped that he wasn't going to puke on him. Sherlock couldn't handle that... right now or anytime.

"Okay," John said weakly.

"And they physically beat me up... with their fists and feet. I don't remember when, but... they untied me and I _almost_ got away and... Reg tackled me and slammed my head against the concrete floor and I thought I was going to pass out... or vomit, which I did, but then I was choking and..." He frowned. "I don't remember much after that. I think I must have passed out... although I wonder how I didn't choke."

"And then there was the time when my arms were tied above my head... quite an uncomfortable situation, I must admit... and, I don't know, they were talking to me, I guess, I wasn't listening, and whenever I didn't answer, they'd... whip me. If it was a whip; like I said, I didn't really know what they were hitting me with. It sort of felt like a riding crop but it didn't seem like it had the flat surface like a riding crop should have, but it didn't entirely seem like a whip, either, although I suppose the gashes against my stomach and hips fit the profile of more of a whip rather than the crop-"

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes again. "Yes. Whatever they hit me with. I was buried so deep in my mind palace that I lost the little details... Then there was the sensory deprivation..."

_As much as Sherlock was trying not to struggle, his instincts were taking over. He couldn't_ help_ it. The pain and the torture were one thing; he could tune that out, forget about it, focus on anything else._

_But this..._

This_ was frightening._

_He felt like he was choking. His scarf had been turned into a makeshift gag and was forced into his mouth, tied tightly around his head. He couldn't breathe through his mouth, which made breathing difficult at all- he was pretty sure his nose was broken and blood was clotted in his nostrils. All he could taste was the fabric of his scarf and dirt and blood. His mouth was dry and every time he swallowed, he felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn't vomit right now; it had nowhere to go._

_He could hear nothing. He had no idea if his captors were around or if they weren't. He didn't feel like anyone was watching, but they could have been standing right next to him and talking and he couldn't have heard. Everything was just deathly silent and it was making Sherlock shiver uncontrollably._

_He always relied on his senses._

_Scarf for a gag and some sort of ear-plugs or something that blocked sound over his ears. And he was blindfolded._

_That was by far the worst part. He couldn't talk and he couldn't hear and he could barely _breathe_, let alone smell anything... but now he couldn't _see_ and it was terrifying._

_When something brushed his arm, he lashed out at the bonds. He could feel blood welling up against the ropes on his wrists and his feet were numb from struggling with the handcuffs on his ankles. But what had touched his arm? What?_

"I felt like screaming, except I couldn't..." Sherlock murmured, trailing off. "It was completely dark and cold and... so desolate." He shook himself mentally, uncurling his fingers from John's jumper even though he couldn't remember when he had grabbed ahold of it, anyway. "I always rely on my senses, so I hate sensory deprivation with a passion."

John wasn't watching him, staring off into space, but he was still combing his hands through Sherlock's hair absentmindedly. He was, Sherlock noted, tense, though. Which Sherlock tensed a second later when John's fingers accidentally brushed his neck.

_"Always thought it was a bit inhumane," Reg muttered. "Those poor dogs."_

_Sherlock wanted so badly to retort, but he knew that if he so much as said a word, the shock collar around his neck was going to buzz up another notch. He'd already made the mistake once and he wasn't going to make it again._

_Just then, a sharp pain tore through his side and he yelled in surprise and pain. The shock collar registered the noise and before his mind had time to clear from the pain of the knife slicing his side, the electric shock from the dog collar racing through his pain receptors._

_He yelled again, struggling futilely, and the process started again with a higher voltage electric shock._

"Son of a fucking bitch!" John swore.

Sherlock jumped before looking up at John. He looked livid.

"How _dare_- oh, when we find these people, Sherlock, they're going to end up in jail for a hell of a lot longer than _three days_. I might put them in _hospital_ for more than three days..." John muttered, mostly under his breath.

"Don't..." Sherlock mumbled, looking away again.

"Don't tell me that, Sherlock. I'm pissed."

"And if they got to me, they can get to you..." Sherlock muttered, feeling tired again.

"So? I want them to get to me. I want to show to them that they don't mess with a soldier's best friend," John muttered.

Sherlock grunted in annoyance, turning his gaze away.

"Sorry," John said after a moment. "Sorry, go ahead, continue."

"You don't want to hear it, John," Sherlock said in a monotone voice.

"I do. Please?"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't think John wanted to hear and Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to relive it... but he figured that he may as well push ahead with it.

_"And when we're done with you, Sherlock, we're going to find your little flatmate and do it all to him."_

_Sherlock's head snapped up, although the motion made his head reel. He was dizzy, so dizzy... He hadn't been allowed anything to drink and he was sweating a lot, even though it was cold (which means a fever, Sherlock), and... he was just_ so_ tired._

_"But worse," Reg said absently. "We're going to torture him and break him, piece by piece. Maybe literally. We might send you his fingers, if you would like?"_

_Sherlock licked his lips. All he could taste was blood. He felt like he was going to vomit._

_"We could gut him like a fish. Knife, straight up the stomach. Take his heart out and mail it to you, express. Perishable."_

_"Stop," Sherlock rasped, clearing his throat. "Stop it."_

_"What? Don't want his heart? What about his face? We could decapitate him. You could keep it in your fridge as a souvenir."_

_"Stop it," Sherlock repeated, closing his eyes._

_"You can't be so picky, Sherlock. What do you want? His eyes? His ears? I could rip his fingernails out... while he's still alive. Send you the video of him screaming."_

_"Stop it!" Sherlock struggled against the bonds, his wrists burning with the motion. "Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!"_

_"Put it into his mind that we killed you. That we cut you into little pieces and shipped you off to different parts of the world. That we burned you alive. That-"_

_"Leave him alone!"_

_"- we broke you down to a screaming, crying-"_

_"Stop!"_

_Pressure suddenly slammed against his neck, cutting off his shouting and his air supply, making him gasp and splutter and choke for breath. "Broke you down into a crying child before we silenced you forever."_

_Sherlock squirmed, trying to lean away or dislodge the pressure or- or_ something_. But he couldn't move and he couldn't breathe and all he could think was _John, John, John _before he fell into a dark oblivion again._

* * *

**This story may have another three to five more chapters... I know where it wants to go, but the muse is holding it back. So, if updates become slow, I apologise in advance. Anyway, more on what happened to Sherlock. I said it wasn't good. But, there's good, old J/S bonding in the next chapter, albeit if the circumstances make it a bit unhappy.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


	11. Emotional Damage

**Warnings: Psychological reactions (which this basically means just angst), slightly awkward situations, slight depictions of war medical scenarios.**

* * *

Sherlock went through his memories, one by one, in a monotone voice. He couldn't remember _all_ the details... like when his leg had gotten broken... and he remembered some of them too well... the psychological torture... and he left out some of the details on purpose... what they threatened to do to John.

He trailed off with how he thought he was going to die, but instead of them killing him, they let him leave. He didn't know why... apparently Reg didn't want murder on his conscience, after all... or maybe it was something about the 'I was in jail for three days' bit... or maybe something entirely different that Sherlock didn't catch... but Sherlock clumsily managed to find his clothes and get dressed and stumble to a cab. And, somewhere in between the warehouse and Baker Street, he had mentally blanked out. He didn't even remember getting back to the flat, but he had... thankfully.

Sherlock fell silent. John's fingers had stopped combing through his hair. They were both still.

Sherlock wasn't thinking of anything in particular. He was just reliving everything, letting it sink in...

... and then the tears started. They were unwarranted and unbidden, warm and quick and pouring down his cheeks. Sherlock pressed his arm against his eyes in horror, trying to stop the tears before they could fall. It was a lost battle. They wouldn't stop.

"Oh, Sherlock," John murmured. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

"I'm fine," he mumbled thickly.

He really didn't know why he was crying. He'd been through three days of torture in the past week, week and a half. He hadn't ever made the conscious decision to cry (tears of pain were a different story). Throughout the hospital, where he felt like he was trapped within his own mind, reliving the memories over and over and _over_ again, he'd kept himself sane with the knowledge that John was safe next to him. Now? He didn't know why he was crying.

He rolled over, curling up on his side and burying his face against the Union Jack pillow and John's jumper, hiding the evidence that the past few days had been too much for him. Just a bit too much...

"You're alright now. Everything's alright," John said, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder again.

Sherlock didn't shrug it off. "I know," he said shakily. "I know..."

Maybe that was why he was crying.

They stayed like this as Sherlock's tears turned to sobs; John's hand a comforting presence on his shoulder. Sherlock was content with it, sort of, until his crying upset his stomach and he barely had time to sit up before he vomited on the floor.

John didn't say anything, just placed his hand against Sherlock's back as Sherlock gasped for breath.

He scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and tried to erase the remnants of his tears, feeling pathetic. He was shaking and he couldn't stop.

"It's okay..."

"You've said that already," Sherlock muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"Just reaffirming the fact..." John mumbled.

Sherlock sighed heavily, getting tiredly to his feet.

"Where are you going?" John asked, standing as well. He winced as he stood- Sherlock guessed that John's legs were asleep.

"Bathroom, John," Sherlock mumbled. "I have a sodding bladder infection, if you forgot," he muttered, reaching for his crutches clumsily.

"I didn't forget," John said, hurriedly handing over the crutches. "Did you take your antibiotic today?"

"Over the rest of the massive amount of pills I have to take? Yes," he muttered, limping towards the bathroom.

"How's the pain level?"

"It's..." Annoying. Painful. Irritating. "... alright," he muttered.

"Headache?"

"Yeah, that's still there," Sherlock muttered, awkwardly handing over his crutches. "But I do have a concussion."

John took the crutches and Sherlock let John support him as he fumbled tiredly with the drawstring on his pyjama pants. This arrangement was like clockwork to them now. Anyone else would have called it awkward, but Sherlock didn't have those boundaries at Baker Street, and given his uneven weight with the crutches, the dizziness, and the medication's side effects... He'd rather ask for John to take his weight while he took a piss than worrying about hurting himself in the process. (He almost had ended up flat on his arse the first night. But then he had been _not_ dealing well with the medication dosage at that point...)

He figured that his priorities were messed up but he didn't care. He didn't have privacy issues, not with John. They were... best friends, after all. Sherlock had very few reservations about what normal people called embarrassing.

The only embarrassing bit about this was that his stupid UTI made him have to piss more often and it was beyond annoying.

"Are you still dizzy?" John asked.

"Yes..."

"Nauseous?"

"Not really... except right now."

"Good," John said.

"Agreed," Sherlock said, allowing John to help him stumble to the sink. "Thank you," he murmured as John had handed him his crutches after he had washed his hands.

"Yeah. You should go back to sleep now."

"I don't want to," he muttered, limping after John to the sitting room again.

"Sherlock, look, you need to sleep."

"I was just sleeping," he said, falling painfully onto the sofa. "It was quite comfortable, actually... and much needed, I have to admit."

"That's good, but you have not made up for lost sleep. You're still aching and covered in bruises, not to mention the other array of crap that you have wrong with you. You need to be resting, even if you're not sleeping."

"Resting's fine," Sherlock said. "Can I have a cuppa?"

"Yes."

Sherlock knew that maybe the cuppa was a bad idea, in retrospect, but he didn't plan on falling asleep again. He hadn't been wanting to sleep at all during the past five or six days, not since he'd started... having those accidents... but his mind and body were both so tired that he ended up unconscious before he could think twice about it.

Now, he wasn't quite so tired and he didn't think that he would be falling asleep right now. He was thirsty and he wanted a cup of tea. No repercussions. It was fine.

John walked into the sitting room with an armful of paper towels. Sherlock watched numbly as his flatmate cleaned up his vomit from earlier.

"Sorry," he managed thinly, as John stood.

"What? Oh, no, not a problem." John walked back into the kitchen, throwing the towels into the bin. He ran more paper towels under the water, scrubbing soap onto them. "I've had worse," he said, returning to the sitting room.

"You keep saying that."

"Sherlock," John said, wiping up the last of the vomit. "I've had men with fevers and flus that left them dealing with projectile vomit that, when you're a doctor, your main concern isn't ducking out of the way. I've had men showing up missing limbs, covered in blood and caked in dust, reeking of urine and feces. And I don't _care_. I'm a _doctor_. I'm built for this."

Sherlock rubbed his nose, leaning back against the cushions. "Alright. I won't say anything else about it. Where's my tea?"

"Brewing."

Sherlock sighed, wincing as pain shot down his side.

"Have you taken pain killers yet today?" John asked, looking at him closely.

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Yes... I'm actually probably good for another dose," he muttered.

"I'll get it," John said hurriedly. "You stay there."

"John-"

"_Resting_, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed again. Really, he just wanted to say that he wanted his independence back... but he couldn't say that because he couldn't even trust his transport's control not to flicker out when he was in the bathroom. He'd have to work on that... John wasn't going to spend the next six to eight weeks helping him to the bathroom.

It didn't help that all of his medication wreaked havoc on his transport, too.

"Here you go," John said, producing a tablet that was a pain killer. "Let me get your tea."

Sherlock stared at the pill for a moment. A single pill. That was all it had taken for him to have John in his life for good. A good pill and a bad pill. One decision and one gunshot... all stemmed from one pill.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked hesitantly, handing over a mug of steaming tea.

Sherlock took it, breathing in the vapours tiredly. "You." He placed the tablet on his tongue and took a drink of his tea.

"Me? What about me?"

"It's all good thoughts, I assure you," Sherlock replied, weakly sarcastic, as he set the mug down and curled up slightly. The cast was bulky and his entire body was covered in either bruises or gashes. It made moving painful and getting comfortable impossible.

He yawned and rest his head on the armrest of the couch.

"... Go to sleep, Sherlock," John said. "I'll be right here."

"I know," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes.

The slightest breeze, followed by pressure on his skin, pressing down, signified that John had taken the afghan off the back of his chair and spread it over Sherlock. Sherlock offered a brief, tired smile, drawing the blanket closer.

He didn't think he'd get to sleep- he was far too uncomfortable- but he figured that he may as well try to relax... now that he finally could.

* * *

**Like I said, John/Sherlock bonding. Maybe just a touch of OCC-ness again, but like mentioned before, after this sort of scenario, I don't think it's so far-fetched.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	12. Face Your Demons

**Warnings: Just a bit of psychological stuff.**

* * *

It took three weeks for Lestrade to contact them- namely John- with the details of Sherlock's attack. They found the place where he had been, but, more importantly... at least one of the people who had done this to Sherlock.

John was immediately ready to jump Scotland Yard, find the bastard, and punch him. However, John knew that he had to approach this topic slowly, carefully, with the consulting detective in question being so vulnerable.

It was only after Sherlock had shared the experience that he managed to sleep through the night without traumatic nightmares or bouts of nocturnal erunesis. It was only one or twice a week that John was forced to wake Sherlock up. Their amount of laundry went down. Sherlock ate. Even tried to take cases that he was in _no_ position to take.

Life was good.

"Come on, John. Come _on_!"

"Okay, you are on crutches, you need to calm down."

"I have _got_ to get back to my experiment! Hurry up!"

John sighed and unlocked the door. Sherlock pushed past him, taking the stairs with his crutches as though he had been walking about on crutches for three months, not three weeks.

"Be _careful_!" John stressed.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine!"

John sighed. Yes, life was remotely back to its normality, but how on _earth_ was John going to broach this topic when Sherlock finally seemed like he had accepted it?

"Sherlock..."

"Go away, John, I'm working!"

John slung his coat on the back of the kitchen chair. "Sherlock, we've got to talk."

"Don't want to talk, want to work, leave me- aha!" Sherlock balanced his weight on one crutch, eagerly stretching for a petri dish on the countertop. "I told you that it was time sensitive! Oh, I've finally gotten it!" He laughed shortly, picking up a cotton swab.

John felt like a monster.

"Sherlock, they found the guy that attacked you."

The petri dish slipped from Sherlock's fingers.

John lunged forward to catch it before it could crash and shatter. He managed to catch it right side-up, so he didn't contaminate the experiment. Offering it back to Sherlock, he found the detective staring at him with a blank expression.

John placed the dish quietly onto the countertop, resisting the urge to do something inane like apologise.

"Lestrade called me when we were out... They-" he cleared his throat- "they found where you were attacked and they've traced one of two. They... They need you to do a line-up."

Sherlock seemed to unfreeze while John was talking, although his childish enthusiasm had vanished, the ghost of laughter had vanished from his eyes. His face had taken on its 'bored and uninterested' look.

It was a careful mask, and John could see through it in a heartbeat.

"Whenever you feel up to it," John added.

"Let's go," Sherlock said shortly, reaching for his other crutch.

John looked up. "I didn't say you had to now."

"You said when I felt like; I feel like it, so let's go."

Before John could say anything else, Sherlock was limping for the door again. John swore under his breath, picked up his coat again, and followed.

* * *

"Sherlock, you really don't have-"

"Shut up."

John shook his head at Lestrade.

He had been trying to talk Sherlock out of this since they'd gotten in the cab. It wasn't that Sherlock had a choice in the matter, but he could have waited until his mind was a little less... unsettled. Although, knowing Sherlock Holmes, his mind probably had righted itself already.

Except John knew that that wasn't true. Sherlock's reaction to the news was enough to state that his mental state wasn't where it might have been on a normal day.

But Sherlock was adamant. He wanted to do this and, because he was Sherlock Holmes, he was going to.

Lestrade sighed. "Alright. Come on."

John held the door open for Sherlock so he could limp into the room with the one-way glass. Lestrade met John's gaze. John just sighed and gave the smallest of shrugs. No matter what he said, Sherlock wasn't going to change his mind.

Besides, Sherlock was already intently staring down the line-up, his face impassive.

John silently took his place at Sherlock's side.

"Three," Sherlock said shortly, before turning and limping away.

John looked between the third suspect and Sherlock, who had forced the door open on his own volition and limped out. John didn't know which pull was much strong: go grab that third suspect and beat the hell out of him or to go after Sherlock. Sherlock needed the most support, though, and going after Sherlock wasn't illegal, so John gave the suspect a glare that he would never see before turning after Sherlock.

"Sher- Sherlock! Wait up!"

Sherlock didn't stop. "I will join you outside momentarily."

"Where are you going?"

"Evidence to look at. Wait for me outside."

John stopped walking, staring after Sherlock. He knew that he was lying. There was no evidence and Lestrade wouldn't have let him look at it, anyway. So, when Sherlock had turned the corner without looking back, John set off after him again.

He turned the corner just in time to see Sherlock vanish into the bathroom.

Sighing, John sidled up to the bathroom door. He was just about to push it open, demand of Sherlock what was wrong, when he caught the sound of vomiting.

That's what was wrong.

John pushed the door open, walking into the bathroom quietly. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock straightened up slightly at his hunched over position in front of the toilet. He raised his head although he didn't look around to see John. "I thought I told you to wait _outside_."

"Well, I knew something was wrong," John murmured, leaning against the wall. "It's alright, you know. You're just pushing yourself too fast. You shouldn't have come in to see those guys already."

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet shakily, swallowing. "Yes, I should have, and I'm glad that I did. There is no point to put off the inevitable."

"Says the man who wouldn't have gone to hospital after the attack if I hadn't called the EMTs while you were unconscious."

"Yes..." Sherlock swallowed again, roughly rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth. "I'm okay."

John frowned, reaching up to place his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

"Really, John." Sherlock looked down at him intently. "I'm okay."

He wasn't saying that he was fine, John realised, he was just saying that he was okay. And that was perfectly alright with John.

"Yes..." John murmured. "You're okay. You'll be fine. You..." he trailed off.

He wanted to say that Sherlock was the strongest person that John knew, but he also didn't _want_ to say it. It was too awkward, too... sentimental. But Sherlock _was_ strong. He was. No other person could handle this so well. Only Sherlock. John was proud of the man in ways that John would never admit out loud.

Sherlock was going to get over this. With a little bit of help and a lot of trust and time, Sherlock would get over it. Make peace with it. Be able to think about it without puking.

And, like the ever loyale blogger and doctor and, most importantly, _friend_ he was, John would be there for every step of Sherlock's recovery.

* * *

**I think I lied about how many chapters this would have, but the muse left me. So, in a rather abrupt but still likeable ending, this story reaches its close. Thank you to all of the followers, for the favs and the reviews. **

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


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